sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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Sorry..thread above is chapter 10

No sooner had they staggered drunkenly back to 221B then they were finding excuses to talk about subjects they'd never quite broached before. Sex, mainly. How John missed it, and couldn't understand how Sherlock didn't. Sherlock simply pointed out that missing something requires one to have actually had it. John had never asked if he was actually a virgin, and even through his alcohol-induced haze, Sherlock smirked and said something along the lines of it all depends on how one defines the terms, yes?

His rather limited experience had been born out of curiosity, not desire. John listened. John talked. In the end, John had a very good understanding of Sherlock's general lack of interest in things sexual, his somewhat limited drive, and his extremely limited (possibly non-existent) attraction to people based on sexual lure alone. He was also rather shocked to find that Sherlock was unaware of John's sexual history, or rather, claimed to be. Whether this was a legitimate blind spot for his friend or merely a clever way to hear John talk about it in his own words was not something his mind could attempt to puzzle out in this state.

"I never would have expected you to be celibate, Sherlock, I mean the whole emotion interferes with the work, I get that, I do, so, I guess I do get that, but, never? I mean, the thought of you taking anyone's word on anything, I would have thought you were the type to... well, to try a little bit of everything, to be honest. For, ummm, science?"

Sherlock managed a shy smile in return. That was good. That was good, because John wasn't quite sure if what he said had been a compliment or an insult. The smile itself was good, too. So. Yeah.

"And you are so bloody gorgeous and clever enough to talk your way into anyone's pants if you wanted to."

The smile faded quickly.

John continued. "I mean, you pulled Janine, and she was a fine one."

"For a case, John."

"Right. And you probably offered Molly a little something in return for her help with your... death thing, then?"

"No. She... had... just wanted to help me." He sounded as if it was still a bit bewildering, even after all this time.

"So, opportunity, but no interest. Don't tell me you weren't interested in Irene. I was in the room for the eye sex."

"Eye sex? Oh, of course. Eye sex. Yes, I was, intrigued, for a short time. I could have learned quite a lot, and she was fascinating, but I wasn't about to expose myself to her."

"James Bond would have."

"I'm definitely not James Bond."

"Hate-sex. The power of lust. You're missing out on some things, my friend. Have you never felt that? That thing that just makes you want to..." John reached out towards Sherlock, stopping mere inches away, miming the act of forcefully grabbing him and dragging him closer. "You know, beyond a conscious thought, beyond a rational decision. Pure. Want."

Sherlock considered it. In the moments of silence, John watched his face. Studied it, actually. Then Sherlock spoke.

"No. I've... wanted... but for me, everything starts here." He pointed to his forehead. It made him remember how, three years ago, sitting in these very same chairs, he had had some paper stuck to it... and he laughed.

"You have? The no-interest-in-hate-sex rules out quite a lot of people we know, actually." He smiled. "It was in Uni, right? Too bad it's not someone I know. You could stick their name on my forehead and let me guess." This time, John let out a clear, joyous, beautiful laugh.

"It is someone you know." Sherlock took a breath and fixed his gaze on John's eyes. "Intimately."

John was caught by the stare. He felt pinned to the wall by it. He was no idiot. It was all there in Sherlock's eyes. The fear, the hurt, the want, the remnants of a long buried hope. John shifted toward him, cupped Sherlock's face to steady him, as well as to steady his own hands, and kissed him.

OH wow, this is beautiful <3

[Talk of suicide in this one. Thank you so much for the feedback. I really appreciate it so very much.]

Sherlock stopped the relatively chaste kiss from progressing, adamant that if they were to do this, really do this, it couldn't be some drunken one-off night. John respected the request in deed, but not exactly in word.

"Sherlock Holmes, by this time tomorrow, I am going to have had already kissed you on every inch of exposed skin I could find, and then would have removed your clothing to make some more. Did that make sense?" he slurred. "I sure hope it does."

"John..."

"You are going to be up all night with your hand on your cock trying to clear your head of all the things I'm going to do to you tomorrow."

"John, we need to see where this goes when sober; don't do this."

"You're nervous? You're nervous if we did this I'm going to wake up tomorrow and wonder what the hell I was thinking? Or are you just not sure how much of this you really want? 'Cause, slow is fine. Very, very slow, and, and I'm sorry if what I was saying, if that sounded aggressive. I just want... well, I just want you. However you are good with, yeah?"

"John Watson, I want to catalogue every movement, every twitch, every sigh, every everything. I want to do it with a clear head and... functioning memory, and... without running the risk of stopping to..." his voice grew a bit unsteady, "vomit on the carpet." And to give you a chance to forget it all. Chances, not manipulation. But this is dangerous, with me, so you'll be there.

John laughed again. "I can't believe we actually took that case. We could barely function at all."

"I'm grateful it came up. I desperately needed the diversion."

That Sherlock had been attracted to him, all this time? How much of this time? Well, it had never occurred to him, but it made a hellovalot of sense now... the dance they'd been doing... closeness, distance... moving forward with real emotion, backing away with tricks and jokes. And with Mary... and the baby...factored in...

"You needed to give Mary a fair chance. I, decided to go into a fall back position." Fall back, don't dislodge that piece stuck in your chest or you'll bleed out... "The course of true love ne'er did run smooth."

"You have room in that brain attic for Shakespeare, but not enough for the Earth going round the Sun? And you called me a romantic." John sunk his head into his hands. "What the hell was I thinking? When you came back, showed up at that restaurant..."

"Bad idea."

"Colossally bad idea, Sherlock. Was that your epic plan?" Christ, yeah that'll kill the sexual tension in the air. Reminds me of just how much I wanted to strangle you.

"Not, exactly. I... improvised. I had intended to simply sit in my chair at Baker Street and await your return. Maybe ask for a pen. But, you were no longer there."

John was puzzled. Had it never occurred to him how he simply couldn't live there anymore, surrounded by Sherlock, knowing that he was gone? That he had failed him. His face grew tight.

"John, the opposite of love is not hate. It's indifference."

"I'm not near sober enough to exchange quotations with you. I'm not sure I even get the point of that one, to be honest. It's not just that you died, Sherlock. It's not just that you stayed away, and didn't say a word, though believe me, that's plenty enough. When I look back on it now, I like to think that you were accomplishing something great that my presence would have made impossible to achieve. And I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't have gone through hell just to be right by your side. Because that's where I belong. But back then? You let me think that you had killed yourself. Had thrown it all away. That I wasn't worth stopping you, that any of it wasn't worth stopping you. But, in spite of all the nights I felt like joining you in death, after a visit to that slab during the day, I somehow managed to find someone to rescue me. A bit sudden, maybe, but I jumped at it. You... you probably knew Mary and I wouldn't last...but you still..."

"Odds of probability, John. I, truly did want you to have your best chance at happiness. Without Magnussen. Without me. That plane was meant to take me out of your life. I wasn't coming back."

"I don't know if I truly believed it. I think I always expected you to find a way. So, you were willing to desert me, for my wife. That is probably the only selfless action which I can recall in our... entire association. I bet you even had a selfish reason for wanting me to be your flatmate."

Sherlock's eyes travelled up and to the left as he grinned. "Not entirely boring. Tidy. The limp could be a singular challenge."

"Figures. Go to bed, Sherlock. I'll...join you...in the morning. May I?" He leaned in towards Sherlock, as Sherlock moved towards him. The kiss was soft, warm, and completely confident. "To be continued..." said John, as he turned toward the stairs.

John always woke up earlier than Sherlock. He had never quite rid himself of military habits, and was seldom asleep past 6. Throwing a robe on, he began descending the stairs with purpose, pleased by the relative lack of hangover. His jovial mood rapidly deteriorated as he heard noises from below. Sherlock was awake. Which meant he had probably never slept... and the odds weren't in favour of it being due to breathless anticipation.

Sherlock was at the microscope.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Mmmm."

"I'm surprised to see you awake this early."

"This late," Sherlock corrected.

"As you are probably well aware, it takes considerably more alcohol than that for me to forget the previous night." There was a fleeting moment of panic, as John realised Sherlock might very well have forgotten the previous night... could have deleted the whole thing. "So, before I start jumping to inaccurate conclusions without, as you say, sufficient data, why are you not in bed? With me."

Sherlock blinked quickly, repeatedly.

"John, I should consider myself a criminal if I kept you out of my bed any longer."

He abandoned his test tubes and paused only long enough to turn off a Bunsen burner before heading to his room, undoing his shirtsleeve buttons as he walked. He didn't so much as glance backward as he moved in a sort of steady glide. He continued to undo buttons, then tossed the shirt carelessly aside before opening his bedroom door. John had simply followed, as if that was all he was capable of at the moment. When he stood in Sherlock's doorway, still fully-clothed, and surveyed the naked man on the bed, he startled himself out of the trance. He looked down at himself, and rapidly undressed.

Sherlock seemed to enjoy being stared at. He placed his arms over his head and stretched out his body into an impossibly long, lean line. For a man composed of so many sharp angles, John was surprised to see a softness, even slight curves where muscle clung to bone. He looked extremely relaxed and comfortable. He wasn't erect. Sherlock tracked John's gaze.

"Oh. In time. Perfectly functional, I assure you. Just a bit lagging behind my brain." He ran his hand along his chest, sliding slowly down his stomach. "Requires a bit of guidance. Nothing to take personally. In the meantime, I suggest you look for secondary signs of interest. Like my lips wrapped around your cock." Sherlock hit the final consonant hard.

Being in bed with Sherlock Holmes was every bit the dramatic experience he had anticipated whilst lying awake in bed the night before, though in truth he had expected the man to be far more reticent. John allowed himself to be pressed down by an endless expanse of arms and legs and pinned, the recipient of hard kisses and long, swathing licks. Sherlock's lack of experience only showed for a brief moment, when he slowed down considerably to gradually allow himself to completely engulf John's cock. John looked down at those dark curls and wanted to grab them by the fistful, but remained immobilized, since Sherlock held both his hands, their fingers laced. The only movement John was capable of was the involuntary motion of hips rocking into that perfect mouth. John watched Sherlock grind into the sheets in time with John's upward thrusts.

Sherlock released his hands, wrapping them around John's thighs and shifting his knees upward to spread them apart, mouth teasing a trail downward, then lower still.

"Oh God, Sherlock, oh my God.... " The sensation was entirely new to John, and dammit if Sherlock didn't somehow know it, putting them back on equal footing. He was harder than he had ever been in his life, and wanted nothing more than to grab him and shove that playful tongue further into his body, but no, no. He couldn't just do that. He placed his hands gently at the back of his neck instead, stroking his shoulders lightly, trying to retain some degree of composure, trying to remember to breathe. Sherlock was fucking right. Breathing is boring. This. Ohhhh. This is...

Sherlock pulled away abruptly and shifted positions, leaning back.

"Take me, John," he said, as if speaking had required a great effort. "I need you to take me."

Wow! This is so great. Your writing is brilliant!

Thank you!
I hope you don't find the next chapter disappointing..it's short, but a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, and should be up later tonight.

Awesome! Looking forward to it :)

He should have known. The sudden shift, the loss of focus. But no, John had been lost in the moment.

Sherlock had been lost too, he supposed... in a sense. John had thought having to be relatively still while being opened up had been a boring prospect at best for Sherlock, and probably slightly uncomfortable (though a skilled physician, proctology was hardly his... area). In retrospect, he had been entirely too quiet. Oh, he had eventually groaned and mumbled instructions to get on with it already, and the impatience had seemed perfectly in character. To be fair (although John had absolutely no intention of being fair, especially to himself), he claimed it had only been a very short while before he came back... having reached some sort of conclusion. But he should have known, should have thought perhaps something was wrong, not just Sherlock wanting to be, well, serviced, like the petulant, lazy git he frequently was. Damn.

Maybe Sherlock was right, not to have said anything about it for so long. Maybe he never should have said anything at all. John almost would have preferred to have continued to think him a lazy git. Almost.

It took a whole week, and even then, when he apparently couldn't hide his reaction quickly enough, Sherlock hadn't intended to confess to it ever having happened before... that feeling he could scarcely describe. He hadn't been able to suppress the flinch as he leaned against John on the sofa while he was delicately twirling his hair, but John had asked and he had answered. As a doctor, his first thought had been an ongoing medical condition... an inner ear imbalance, perhaps... which left him feeling vaguely disoriented at the change in position.

A whole week of ignorance. Not that Sherlock had expected any different. I mean, he was trying to be disingenuous, and who in the world can see through Sherlock at times like that?

What? Did he expect him to have said "John, I need to go into my mind palace a bit during our first time together. Just trying to figure out if I've ever been held down and had a cock involuntarily shoved down my throat or up my arse. Be back in a jiff... just keep doing what you're doing, would you, while I see if it gets worse for me as you go along. Ta!" Or perhaps "OK, back now. Not as bad as I initially thought, but bears further investigation. Carry on, my good man! Now, where were we. Oh, yes... harder, John!"

He would have stopped. Bloody fucking Hell, of course he would have stopped. And Sherlock hadn't exactly wanted that to happen, had he?

[OK, here's where it gets kinda tricky, so I hope I'm blending the orientation-related issues with the abuse issues in a way that makes sense to both sexual and asexual people and survivors. Any and all specific feedback is helpful to me- and I never expect everyone to like it]

"I think, we need to back off a bit. So you can figure this out."

"Figure out what, exactly? Back off... how?"

"You need some time, Sherlock. This could change how you feel about things. Provide you with some, needed explanation."

"Explain what? Explain me? Aren't we all a product of our predispositions as well as our experiences?" Sherlock bolted out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around him tightly. "John, for me, no relationships are about sex, so, in a sense, every relationship is about sex. Would it help or hurt, that extra layer of complication? Any friendship. Any relationship. Any chance meeting. I make a choice for it to be sexual or not. It is a conscious decision." His words continued to gain in speed and intensity as his voice dropped into deductive mode. "Apart from taboos, which are illogical for non-reproductive relationships... and apart from social convention, which is simply the opinion of the majority imposed on the minority... every type of relationship, be it personal or professional, has sexual undertones. It's difficult enough being in a romantic relationship with one person, let alone more than one, so I suppose I'm monogamous by default, not by any ridiculous moral code, but nothing about this past event, or events, affects my choices, my decision-making skills, my self." He continued after the briefest of pauses. "If I choose this , why should anything suddenly change? "

"Have you ever thought about what this side of the conversation is like? Listening to you? I mean, we are discussing us, Sherlock, not debating anthropological theories. This is... you are saying you got into a relationship, a sexual relationship, with me, not because you found me particularly handsome or fit (God knows those days are behind me), but because you thought 'sure, why the hell not?' And my having wanted to make my marriage work, regardless of my developing physical attraction to you, is ridiculous moral code, is it? And here you are, a victim of what might amount to years of sexual abuse, and you think that has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you avoid sex? So it just comes down to 'I haven't had sex in a month, might be a good thing to do to keep the pipes working?' and that's how you define yourself and that's just fine, is it? Nothing to ponder here." John headed off to the kitchen.

"The pipes take care of themselves eventually, John," Sherlock muttered. "Might as well not wake up to it."

John turned back towards Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Does it at least feel good? Sex with me?"

"Yes, of course it... the chemical reactions are what they are. Have you ever thought for even a moment that it's all you..." he seemed to gather more disdain the longer he continued to speak, "people out there seeking a rush that is the problem? All you oxytocin-dopamine-norepinephrine-serotonin-testosterone junkies seeking chemical satiation and calling it love?! Driving everyone else to figure out what the hell's wrong with them, when it's really all of you with the problem. Damn it, there's nothing wrong with me! I'm not broken, John! I'm just wired differently. I'm not defective. I'm..." He didn't bother to finish, he just headed back to bed and slammed the door.

So many years, discovering what I am. That I'm fine. That it all makes sense. That I'm not broken. But now, I am broken, as well. But not because of this.
Because of Mycroft.

John was running late. It took him longer than usual to make his way out of the tangle of limbs that was Sherlock Holmes and make his way to the shower. He grabbed a quick slice of toast, and headed out the door. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he felt something in one. Pulling it out, he discovered a small tube of L'Occitane Shea Butter Hand Cream and a small note tied to the cap with a thin red ribbon.

"Apologies for the Arsenic-contaminated fingernails upon the countertop, slammed doors, broken mugs, and any other crimes perpetrated upon our flat or its contents within the past two and one half weeks. Please do be advised this note does not constitute an apology for emotional reactions. -S"

John smiled. He was finally getting better at this. Cutting words, a march to the bedroom and a slammed door meant come after me if you love me. He had made the right choice following Sherlock, letting him spew poison at the Universe for being the way it was, and holding him afterwards, even when he was convinced he deserved no such thing. He had stopped trying to create distance for him when he needed to prove he was fully capable of closeness. He had given him the opportunity to do just that, on his own terms.

Each time he washed his hands between patients, he grabbed some of the lotion. Sure beat the stuff in the office. This was Expensive French Stuff. He couldn't resist grinning again as he checked the time, wondering what Sherlock was up to this afternoon. He sent a text thanking him for his good taste before heading back to the exam room for his next patient.

Sherlock heard the text alert and allowed a quick smile to cross his face as he turned down the volume on his mobile. He knew exactly who it was, and he would be wanting to read it very much in four to six minutes from now. Mycroft often liked to talk slower than was strictly necessary, so there could only be an approximation.

"Why this room? Why not the Strangers Room?"

"The other rooms have surveillance equipment, Sherlock. This one is different. It is unmonitored. It is private. It is entirely soundproof. If you want to have a discussion, or, I suppose, murder someone without witnesses, then this would be the place to do it."

"And you think I have a need to murder someone without witnesses?"

"Perhaps."

Mycroft crossed to a flask of brandy and poured himself a glass. He raised an empty one and tilted it in his brother's direction. Sherlock shook his head. "We're different, you and I," Mycroft began.

"Yes. I know."

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock grinned.

"I know that's not what you meant, but please, do go on... Brother Mine."

"The, rules, that apply to normal people, they don't have to apply to us. We are not normal people Sherlock." He gestured with his glass, but didn't drink from it. "The Latin root means unchaste. Impure. Such archaic terms. Chastity. Purity."

"Ever the linguist. Good with your tongue, then? Can't say I recall. Not exactly a finger, is it?"

Mycroft leaned against a large mahogany desk. "I prefer 'consanguineous relationship'. Better etymology... of the same blood. Ancient Egypt. The Incan Empire. To preserve greatness."

"Small islands and mountainous tribes. Primitive cultures. A survival mechanism when faced with extreme isolation. There is no need for such isolation in today's world. But it's not the fact that you're my brother that concerns me. That is irrelevant... a boundary entirely created by culture. Of course, that was all about children. It has always been about children, in one way or another, but that is hardly the issue here."

"True. An estimated 50,000 active genes in humans, no need to concern ourselves with deleterious recessive alleles."

"And, might I say, preserving royal lineage, that's a very lofty justification for what essentially amounts to the selfish behavior of a horny teenager. The issue, Mycroft, is consent."

Mycroft swirled the drink he held and held it to his nose. "You've likely heard of the rooting reflex. If you stroke a newborn’s cheek, he will open his mouth and turn his head toward the side that was stroked. A newborn will suck anything, you know. Instinctual." He placed the glass down.

"Up to about four months of age. I somehow doubt this diversion interested you at age seven."

"Might have. For the depraved, there are no restrictions based on age. I suppose this is a suitable role for me. Your archenemy."

Sherlock crossed to the brandy and poured himself a glass. "I know how this game goes. You manage to portray yourself as evil incarnate. I see that you couldn't possibly have been that man...having looked after my well-being for years, from a far enough distance for me to almost not have noticed. Then part of me, the stupid part, rushes to your defense. That couldn't possibly be the same person...it doesn't... fit. I decide I must have gotten it wrong." Sherlock paused to sip his drink.

"Didn't see all the parts clearly, assumed they weren't there," Mycroft said under his breath, turning towards the window, eyeing his own reflection in the one-way-glass.

"Or, alternatively, I forgive you. Figure you must have dealt with something far worse. Or, perhaps, I try to understand you. No tragic motivation, just an escalating lack of concern for someone else's right to their own body's autonomy. A gradual process. Put myself in your shoes, so to speak."

Mycroft faced Sherlock again, watching quietly as he continued. "I don't care to do that. I don't care to do any of those things. And I don't choose to absolve you. However far you went, it was far enough. We both know that. We each live with the consequences." He placed the glass back on the table. "Thank you for the conversation. It has been enlightening."

"You're welcome. It was the least I could do."

Op here! This was wonderful! So intriguing and the writing was gorgeous. Thank you so much for filling <3

Hi OP... Deanoning. (Doing some editing and posting it onto my AO3 as I go.)
It was a great prompt! I'm really glad you liked where I went with the fill. Thanks for following me through it with your feedback... I really appreciate that!

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